The English, The French, and The Wine
by RainbowOfNight
Summary: Francis takes Arthur out to a bar, despite his boyfriends protests. Arthur has a little too much to drink, and chaos occurs. Arthur Kirkland and wine is not a good combination. FrUK!


**The sequel to The English, The French, and The Pixie Sticks. You don't have to read that to understand this one. In fact, they're actually not related too closely. The first story was about Arthur and Francis (or England and France, as it says there) first started dating, and this is later on after that. Just a quick explanation of you haven't read the first one**

** Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

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Arthur Kirkland was never a very social person, and his boyfriend Francis Bonnefoy knew that, yet still the blond Frenchman insisted on forcing into accompanying him to one of his favorite nightclubs. Arthur preferred the familliarity of his own house, a roaring fire, and a steaming cup of tea to strolling through the streets of London in winter to admire the snow covered top of Big Ben as some did; he'd rather be reading a novel than watching a noisy parade pass by with their trumpets and drums, or go to a party. Especially go to a party. The stifling crowds worked on his nerves like nails scraping across a chalkboard, and the music was deafening in his ears. He had always been a bit shy, and it took him a while to warm up to most people. He was a wallflower, he supposed, and as out of place at this damnable bar as he could be.

Francis, on the other hand, was a social butterfly, sucking the pollen from living flowers as he went, sitting in the center of the room at parties with a glass of wine in hand, sipping it occasionally while he talked about anything and everything to whoever would listen. He preferred the more elegant nightclubs, however, with their soft lighting and leather chairs and fine champagne, and scoffed at the wild events he saw on television that usually ended with awkwardly explained injuries and ambulances parked outside. He was a vision here, perfectly at home among strangers, and leading Arthur up to introduce him, to which the shorter man responded with nervous handshakes and greetings. He didn't know any of these people, and he doubted Francis knew a fair amount of them either.

They had been at the club for two hours now, and Francis had Arthur pulled into countless dances, sneaking a kiss every now and again as they spun around in circles. Arthur's response of shoving him away did nothing other than make him spin them faster, and kiss him deeper, much to the Brit's annoyance.

"We've been here long enough," Arthur complained as Francis leaned against a veined marble pillar with eyes glazed with crackling energy, smirking as he watched the other nation glare daggers at him. "I've tried your festivities, and I _still _don't like them. Let's get going. I'll bring the car around."

Francis tossed his hair and raised his hands as if wounded. "Oh, Angleterre! You bruise my fragile heart! Please, amour, let me try one more thing. I promise you'll enjoy yourself immensely."

Arthur was about to flat-out refuse, but the pleading note in his lover's voice made him pause and consider himself. Whatever he had in mind couldn't take too long, could it? Francis would be happy, and both them could home with their wishes granted, and there would be no silent animosity towards each other when they got home. What was five more minutes? He nodded, and crossed his arms over his chest, stumbling as a group of giggling ladies in long evening gowns knocked against him. The satin tail of a blue dress was caught under his shoe, and the woman wearing it fell with a sharp jerk, collapsing into one of her friends arms with a startled yelp. Arthur helped to her feet, apologizing profusely and just barely hearing the snicker coming from Francis. He hoped this wasn't a sign of some sort. Francis's plans were not always... successful, even when he meant well.

Francis zoomed him to the crowded bar, moving between patrons with tall glasses of multi-coloured drinks in their hands, and impatiently waiting for their turn in line. Finally it came, and a sleepy eyed bartender took his order for "Something strong, for my darling and I." Arthur felt like smacking him.

The glasses that were served to them were taller than any of the other people around them, perspiring with small droplets of water and filled to the brim with a liquor the color of tar, with a thin lemon slice clinging to the side. Arthur sniffed it curiously. It had an odd scent, pungently sweet like a bit of melted hard candy left out in the sun. "What is this?" He asked.

"That's a secret. But one will have you doing things you never dreamed that you won't even remember in the morning." Francis pushed the cold glass against his chest. He felt the chill even through his shirt. He took a cautious sip. It was good, actually, and didn't burn the throat too much on the way down. He downed the whole glass within five minutes, Francis watching with fascination.

Arthur had a notoriously low tolerance for alcohol, and the speed in which he finished his drink worried Francis. He remembered the last time he had seen Arthur truly drunk, a few months ago, when America had carried him into the house unconscious over his shoulder. "He overdid it a little," he had told Francis, running a hand awkwardly through his blond hair. Francis had been sitting at the kitchen table, reading a magazine, when they'd come in.

"Mon dieu, how much did he have?" He had asked. "I thought I told you to take care of him!"

"I was. It's just... He only had a whole glass, and it wasn't really hard stuff." It was half a question, as if Francis could confirm this information.

"That's it?" Francis was amazed that so little could send his amour into this state. It took him at least eight, a fact he was quite prideful in.

That night was spent taking care of Angleterre, and trying his best to alleviate the hangover from hell that occurred the next morning. It was hard on both of them, and Arthur had not had a drink since, to his knowledge.

Arthur gave him a thumbs up, and rose to his feet, wobbling slightly and grabbing futilely for support. Francis steadied him, both hands on his shoulders. "Let go, frog," Arthur snapped, pushing him back into his chair. He walked-or tripped- to the bar, leaning into the counter until his face was inches away from the tired bartenders. They had a short conversation that Francis couldn't make out, and then the bartender reached for a blue bottle glistening with moisture and poured some into a glass, and pushed it towards Arthur. He took it and laughed heartily at something, and returned to Francis at the table, where he wrapped his arms around him in a loose embrace. "You know I love you, right?" He whispered, his breath hot against Francis's ear.

Francis normally would have enjoyed such unusual public affection from him immensely, but the circumstances simply weren't right. Arthur probably wouldn't remember any of this in the morning anyway. His response was halfhearted. "Yes, darling, of course I do."

Arthur giggled, and used the tabletop to hoist himself up onto Francis's lap, wrapping his arms around the other nations neck and burying his head in his chest. He reached out and clasped his new drink, his hand shaking as he drank.

"No no, Angleterre," Francis scolded, taking it away and placing it as far away as possible, but not before Arthur got a good long sip in. "You've had too much already. Now look at yourself. You're going to be sick later."

The other man looked at him murderously for a moment before hopping off of his lap and doing his best to get to the front door without falling. He straightened suddenly as a large man stepped in front of him, his eyes scanning his rumpled form too closely for Francis's comfort.

"Excuse me," Arthur grumbled, moving to step around the man, but the man followed, stepping back into his path again.

"How about I buy you a drink?" He said, running a hand up Arthur's arm, stopping at his neck, where he massaged a thick piece of hair in his palm. He smirked, and then he said something so vile even Francis gasped in horror. Arthur stumbled back with a protesting "Bloody pervert!"

Francis was at his lovers side in seconds, wrapping a protective arm around his shoulders. He felt as if his eyes must be shooting scorching flames as he gritted his teeth at the man, who boldly shoved him. He lost his grip on Arthur, and he landed hard on his back on the floor, his head connecting sharply with the floor, looking up at the crystal chandelier above. It sparkled like diamonds in the light. A chorus of grunts and swearing came from above, and then a yelp, and a thud followed by a sickening crack, like a fist colliding with bone. It sent a ray of sunlight into Francis's stormy thoughts. Arthur was fighting back, and he had made a well-placed blow.

"As you can see, he's with someone," Francis growled, blond hair hanging in his eyes and a thin stream of blood trickling down his forehead. He stood and faced them with his head pounding. It was as if it had just been used as a drum. It took an effort to keep himself standing.

The man had Arthur tucked under one arm like a child with his arms pinned to his sides. Arthur was struggling valiantly , and Francis thought he glimpsed the discolouration of a new bruise on his face. On the bastards face too, blood ran, but with the freedom of water from a faucet. It came from his nose, which was caved in in the center, and was a slick mess of thickening red. He scowled at Francis, and at the crowd that had gathered around them, whispering to each other, some shielding their eyes from the mess of the mans face with scarves and hands. Francis thought he heard the beeping of a dialing cell phone far off in the back of the group.

"This is none of your business!" The man bellowed, and a woman flinched, clinging to the man by her side anxiously. He rolled his eyes at the scene, and threw Arthur to the floor like a discarded toy. The Englishman rolled over twice, and stopped a few feet from Francis, moaning in pain. His face had a blossoming black and blue on his cheek, discolouring his pale complexion horribly. "It wasn't worth the effort," The man said. "He's not that pretty anyway."

Francis had leaned over Arthur, checking to make sure his breathing was steady, and when he was satisfied the man was going to be fine for the moment, he directed his building fury at the bastard who had done this to his amour. "Are you truly that ignorant?" His voice carried a dangerous tone that sent a visible twitch of wariness through the man. "He is my living yellow rose whose fragrance entrances me and so many others with a single word or glance. He argues and frets about every little thing some days, and every word and threat is tinged with loveliness. He is infinitely beautiful, and I suggest you leave this place before I knock the rest of your face in."

At that very instant he did, the doors slamming behind him so hard the glass windows shook in their frames, and Francis and Arthur were left in complete silence.

No one moved. They all stared curiously at Arthur as he stirred, pushing himself to sit up. "I-I got one good hit in. The bloody git will remember this." He held up his fist, which was splattered with a thin film of red. He managed to stand, and grabbed Francis for support as he led them to the door. The sound of a cell phone dialing could be heard once again, and Francis sighed, grabbing a random tweed coat from the rack and helping Arthur shrug into it. Whoever the owner was, no protest could be heard from them.

"It's cold," Francis said absently, doing the coats buttons. He dug into his pants pocket with one hand and pulled out a large number of crumpled bills, and threw them into the middle of the room. They fluttered like feathers to the floor, and the people standing the closest leaped forward, snatching them up as others came too late.

"Can you walk alright? I can carry you."

Arthur shook his head, and Francis wasn't entirely sure what it was he was saying no to. "Are we going back to America's place?" He asked, his words slurring. "I don't wanna! His cooking is horrible, and-and the last time Ivan and him were wrestling when I came in. They said they were fighting, but I know what they really do in that attic." He said it so loudly and with such eloquence, raising his arms for the attention of the people. Some were laughing quietly to themselves. Others just looked confused.

France knew he must be blushing as red as Lovino by now. He averted his eyes, and flew through the door as fast as physically possible. Arthur came with him, and they both entered into a stinging assault of wind-blown raindrops. Francis shielded his face, and Arthur put out his hand and watched the water droplets collect there. He slid down against the wall of the building and held his head in his hands.

"What's wrong?" Francis asked. He hoped he wasn't about to be sick all over the street or something. It hurt to see him like this.

"I ruined my own birthday,didn't I?" Arthur said glumly. "I know what I'm like..."

"Non! You did not ruin it. He did. You're allowed to let go sometimes, Arthur. You don't always have to be uptight and watching everyone around you. You're a person, and you've needed some well deserved free time. It's not likely to go perfectly. Not many things ever do. But I've enjoyed spending the evening with you." He held out a hand, and when Arthur missed grabbing it by about a foot, he leaned down and tilted his chin up gently, so he could look into those stunning drink-clouded eyes. The kiss was quick, rushed because of the pouring rain, but it said everything that was needed.

"I'm going to take you home, and I'm going to give you a time you'll never forget. Happy birthday, Arthur Kirkland."

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**I'm really sorry if this sucks. I had a hard time writing the second half, and it's been tough on my brain. I looked over it multiple times, but I was at a loss for ideas and improvment, so I just shined it up the best I could and posted it. Hopefully my future stories will be better. My confidence was just boosted after my crush saying she likes me back, and my singing heart's energy will be transferred to my writing, with luck. :)**

**Constructive criticism is super, so review you guys. :) If you want a second chapter, just say so. Oh, and sorry if there's any misspelled French. Correct me at will.**


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